V. Madhusoodhanan Nair
1. Lo, my son,
This is India's map.
These drained lines flowing out
Like frantic cries of impotence
Are rivers sans progeny
Behold, my son,The shaven headed saffron mounds,
The routes of civilization
That has forgotten its footsteps,
The amorous urban ‘Yakshis'
Wreathed in smiles to entrap you,
The skytracks where hawks screech and scream about,
The chimneys which puff out ashen cash,
The golden mansions of faith
Agape for devout offerings,
Diverse hues and shades, diverse lands,
And withered jungles of life in between.
This is India's map,...